


Alone. Home.

by deutschtard



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Death, Drinking, Gen, Other, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-12
Updated: 2012-04-12
Packaged: 2017-11-03 12:45:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deutschtard/pseuds/deutschtard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haymitch finds out what these words REALLY mean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alone. Home.

I stared down at the cliff, and that's the first time I ever felt alone. I knew there were still people out there, animals. The same thing, really.

But there I was. Alone. 

Dying.

My face in the sandy rock, my eyes barely focusing as my intestines threatened to escape, I knew I had won. But would I even be alive to reap the benefits? The world went black, and I figured, "well ain't that a kick in the pants. I win and die before I get to see them again."

* * * *

The next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital. Everything was cold, sterile, everything hurt. The room looked out of focus, and I knew they must've had me on some powerful drugs. It felt good. I felt cozy. I felt at home in this world, just slightly off-kilter from the fucked up existence I knew I'd have to go back to at some point.

That day was not today.

That day never happened. Two weeks later, after a whirlwind of photographs and interviews and eating and drinking until I'm about ready to burst, I'm home. But after all the district members greet me, after I get back to my new home in the Victor's Village, I feel it again.

I'm alone.

No one is there. President Snow made sure of that, after the trick I pulled that made me the winner. I stop by the Hob and trade the things I won't ever use: pots, pans, the money I'll never spend buying my family presents.

There's a strange lady over in the corner, I know her, but I've never talked to her. Ripper. She's nursing a bottle of white liquor, I can smell her from halfway across the Hob. She calls me over.

"Have a little! The Victor gets the spoils or whatever," she mutters. I sniff it and the edges of my vision go fuzzy.

Never have I wanted something more in my entire life.

I give her the rest of the money in my pocket, "Give me all of that stuff you can find."

I walk home with seven bottles crammed in my arms and put them on the counter of the kitchen I'll probably never use.

After the first half bottle, everything's off-kilter again, soft, fuzzy, vibrating and out of focus.

I drink the rest of the bottle, curl up in what would have been my mother's bed.

I'm alone.

I'm out of focus with the rest of the world, but now I know this feeling. And I know what this means.

I'm  _home._


End file.
